


hearth

by elizajane



Series: and behold, it was so very good [17]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21797794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: From the beginning, Aziraphale's touch has said:You matter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and behold, it was so very good [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1411705
Comments: 27
Kudos: 112





	hearth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kooriicolada (WHM_Koorii)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WHM_Koorii/gifts).



> A reader asked very nicely for Aziraphale going down on Crowley in this 'verse and, um, this happened. You're welcome. 
> 
> Many thanks to Jaydeun who argued with the Internet until it produced some actual images of snake clitori. Non-reproductive snake sex parts are apparently not of interest to most scientists (*kof*snakecisexism*kof*)
> 
> Thank you to my ever-patient wife and fellow writer Crowgirl for the beta. All remaining oddities and infelicities are my own.

Crowley will always remember that first winter after Adam rebooted the world as an Earthly delight of warmth. He is no longer required to come up with plausible excuses (however paper-thin they had become) to abandon his all-angles flat in Mayfair in order to come by Aziraphale's shop. He just never leaves. He begins the day securely enfolded in the heat of Aziraphale's arms, moves to the brick-oven warmth of the kitchen for coffee and soft-boiled eggs, spends his daylight hours wandering London until he grows chill around the edges, at which point he returns to the bookshop by way of a convenient cafe.

After delivering steaming drinks to Sky and Aziraphale, Crowley retreats with his own to the deepest of the deep leather armchairs (the ones Aziraphale has let Crowley and Sky acquire and arrange in the back corner of the shop) to read. He doesn't have to pretend he hates reading any longer, which makes for a nice change. And along with the collection of armchairs, Aziraphale has also added a low, rather battered but sturdy, wooden coffee table -- perfect for resting one's feet upon when in full slouch -- and hired Newt to install a wood stove. With Sky in the shop -- not to mention an increasing number of regular customers -- passing the winter as a snake in a nest on the ground floor is simply less tenable than in years past. But the wood stove, and the books, and the way Aziraphale finds excuses to pause at regular intervals to lean over the back of the chair and give Crowley kisses, mean that all things considered Crowley doesn’t mind the trade-off. He can snake all he wants on the floors above.

And then the evenings … oh, the evenings. When, once upon a millennia, Crowley had felt obligated to engage in an intricate dance of when to arrive, how long to stay, at what point to depart, now the prospect of darkness with Aziraphale spools out into another dawn with no need to wrench himself away. Aziraphale, too, positively glows -- even before the iridescent sheen begins to glimmer at his softest, warmest points -- at the miracle of having Crowley _there_ without the need for Aziraphale to convince, or pretend to convince, him to stay.

Not that Aziraphale doesn't still fuss because of course he does because he's Aziraphale. He acquires Crowley's favorite vintages. He drapes multiple fleece blankets over the back of the sofa. He builds fires in the fireplace that make the sitting room -- the entire _flat_ \-- warmer than a midsummer heatwave. A kintsugi bowl appears on Crowley's bedside table (he now has a _side of the bed_ in Aziraphale's bedroom) for hairpins, a bowl Crowley once admired when visiting Aziraphale in Nishio several centuries ago. At night, Crowley sometimes lays awake under Aziraphale's arm gazing at the gold rivulets in the curved sides of the pottery and thinks _you don't have to do all of this to keep me here_. Because of course Aziraphale doesn't, Crowley never could stay away, not for long. But Crowley accepts all of the wordless invitations anyway, because it’s clearly making Aziraphale happy to extend them. And because they help Crowley connect the ways in which Aziraphale has always loved him with the ways Aziraphale is free to love him now.

"My dear," Aziraphale says one evening, after supper, when Crowley has retreated to the corner of the sofa nearest the fireplace with a Turkish history of the Silk Road. "I noticed the other evening that your scales are becoming a bit dry."

It's the weather; he'll be itchy and shedding soon, Crowley knows. He looks up from his book. "It happens."

"Yes, yes. I know it happens," Aziraphale makes one of those gestures with his hand that means he's trying not to be exasperated with Crowley due to how adorable he finds Crowley's eccentricities. "But I've found something that might help. If you'll let me."

Crowley is already closing his book and dropping his feet from the coffee table so he figures a verbal _yes_ is superfluous. Azirapihale is standing by the hearth in his slippers and dressing gown with a towel over his shoulder and a small bowl of something fragrant that reminds Crowley of the steaming air inside Turkish baths. Not that he frequented places of public nudity routinely -- in recent centuries, only when forced to by his superiors -- because the fewer clothes he had on, the more memories he had to alter and frankly it wasn't worth the effort.

Crowley raises an eyebrow in question and runs his human-shaped tongue along his lower lip. Then he drops that little bit of concentration and flicks it out again snakey black, just to pull Aziraphale's gaze to his mouth and watch Aziraphale's cheeks pink with pleasure. "Well, then," Crowley says, leaning forward to put the book on the table where his feet had been. "How would you like me."

Aziraphale twitches his nose like he needs to acknowledge Crowley is poking slight fun but doesn't want to hold up proceedings on that account. "I thought over here, before the fire. If I'm to oil you, my dear, that will require you to be naked and I don’t want you getting chilled."

Crowley side-steps the coffee table and moves to stand where Aziraphale indicates on the luxurious pile of rugs Aziraphale has laid before the fireplace and pauses with his hands on the hem of his jumper. "Shall I...?"

"Unless you want an oiled jumper," Aziraphale says. He bends down to put the bowl of oil on the table, then turns back to help Crowley. Crowley takes his black cashmere turtleneck and vest off in one go, then allows Aziraphale to pull him forward by the waistband of his jeans so that Aziraphale can undo the button and zip, then push both jeans and pants down Crowley's thighs.

Aziraphale follows the jeans to the floor, kneeling at Crowley's feet. "I got it," Crowley protests, for the sake of protesting, not because he wants Aziraphale to stop. Aziraphale's hands are soft at the backs of his knees, calves, pushing down his thick woollen socks, urging him to lift first one foot then the other so Aziraphale can pull all the garments away.

The rugs are soft and rich and warm beneath Crowley's feet. Crowley follows Aziraphale to the floor, kneeling, and Aziraphale's hands come up to smooth down his flanks and settle on the slight curve of Crowley's hip bones.

"There," Aziraphale says, satisfied, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Crowley’s lips.

"If you wanted me naked, my angel ..." Crowley murmurs against Aziraphale’s mouth.

"Mmm. I want you _comfortable_ , my snake," Aziraphale counters, and Crowley struggles not to squirm away from the fondness in Aziraphale's voice. Aziraphale noses another soft kiss against Crowley’s cheek. "Now. Lay back."

Crowley sinks back against the heat-soaked rugs, then allows Aziraphale to tug him over onto his belly and arrange his limbs. The scales along his spine have been itching persistently all day and now that Aziraphale has promised to do something about it, the discomfort intrudes back into the center of his consciousness. He stretches and rolls his shoulders in a vain attempt to ease the prickle and Aziraphale makes little murmuring sounds of displeasure at what he sees.

"S'okay," Crowley says, dropping his forehead onto his folded arms. He doesn't like to worry Aziraphale. Or perhaps likes to worry him too much, because when Aziraphale is worried he does things like this.

"I don't like to think of all the years you wouldn’t let me take care of you," Aziraphale says, softly. Strong, gentle hands move down Crowley's back from the curve of his shoulders to the swell of his arse, then pull away and there are quiet sounds of Aziraphale shifting on the rugs beside Crowley, the porcelain bowl being rocked ever so slightly on the table as Aziraphale dips in a hand, and then warm oil dribbles along Crowley's spine followed by Aziraphale's firm touch. Crowley bites back a moan -- before remembering he no longer has to -- at how good the pressure feels.

"Ah, _fuck_ ," he manages, mostly a groan, as Aziraphale kneads a slow path down Crowley's spine, working the oil into Crowley's unhappy skin. Crowley has never felt the ache in his shoulder blades that Aziraphale does -- from keeping his wings under wraps -- but the places where his scales meet his human skin have always been slightly tender to the touch. And in Aziraphale's hands Crowley becomes exquisitely aware of the snakey bits of himself, of how deeply Aziraphale understands, and loves, that they are part of him, of the fact that Aziraphale finds them -- finds _him_ \-- beautiful.

The cinders in the hearth settle on the grate and Aziraphale's mantle clock chimes the quarter hour. Aziraphale is humming to himself, an angelic vocalization not quite a tune to human ears, that he makes when happy and concentrating deeply. Something between a human hum and the purr of a cat that sends vibrations along the parts of Crowley that don't exactly exist here on Earth, but don't exactly _not_ exist here either. It's a familiar, beloved, only-Aziraphale sound that floods him with contentment. Every atom of Crowley’s body knows that when Aziraphale begins to angel-hum all is well, all is well, all manner of things shall be well.

Aziraphale is thorough with the oil. Beginning at the nape of Crowley's neck he massages his way down to where Crowley's scales disappear at the cleft of his buttocks. Aziraphale skirts the cleft at first, working his fingers deep into the swell of Crowley's arse, then down along the backs of his thighs. The skin on Crowley’s legs, apart from high up on the inside of his thighs, passes for human -- though with very little hair. Still, Aziraphale works the oil into Crowley’s human skin with the same care he does the scales and Crowley allows his limbs to grow heavier with each downward stroke, feeling the old, familiar ache of desire begin to build deep inside his body. He’s still learning that he doesn’t have to _manage_ it as he used to. That the ache doesn’t require _vigilance_. That the ache can build, and build, and overflow, and Aziraphale will be there to help him catch everything that spills between them.

He doesn’t have to leave. He’ll never have to leave again.

He's slow to realize Aziraphale is asking him to roll over, first with words and then -- when he doesn't respond -- gentle, guiding hands tugging at his shoulder and hip. <<Sorry,>> he says, and it slips out in snake, not that Aziraphale minds, has ever minded.

"No apologies, now" Aziraphale chastises, soft, over the angel-hum that continues emanating from him uninterrupted. Crowley shudders as his soft underside is exposed, even though it’s just to the warmth of Aziraphale’s care. He fists the fingers of one hand into the layered carpeting to keep himself from curling back over, and flings an arm across his eyes to make it bearable, being this exposed, even if only to Aziraphale, before whom he's always felt entirely too visible. "Shh," Aziraphale is saying, "Crowley, shh, there now, you're alright, shh, I'm right here," like you would to something small and frightened, hands smoothing down Crowley's suddenly-heaving sides. He isn't crying. It's just a tightness in his chest, a passing difficulty breathing.

 _Breathe in_ , Aziraphale's hands are on him, urging his lungs to expand. _Breathe out. Shh. Breathe in. There. That’s it. Shh._ And always the susurration of Aziraphale's other voice reminding Crowley that Aziraphale is content -- and more -- with all he sees exposed here in the safety of this space.

Aziraphale reaches across Crowley's chest and uncurls his white-knuckled fingers from the rugs, turning Crowley’s wrist gently to lay his hand palm up before tracing his own oil-slick thumb up the inside of Crowley's arm from wrist to elbow, then up over his shoulder joint, then a sweep across the obsidian and tourmaline scales at Crowley's collarbones. Crowley breathes, feels Aziraphale’s hands, flicks out his tongue to taste the air: under the rich taste of shea, frankincense, and myrrh is the unmistakable taste of Aziraphale's desire.

\<<Good,>> he offers, finally, and Aziraphale silently takes him at his word. He reaches for more oil and tips it warm across his hands and over Crowley's chest, then returns to his ministrations. He slowly, tenderly massages the healing heat into the painful, rough patches of skin and scale around Crowley’s neck and down his sternum, where even the softest cashmere irritates this time of year.

Aziraphale's hands, made to work miracles, are the only Heavenly hands to have ever touched Crowley with _care_. As if his life, no matter his form, could be something to value. From the beginning, Aziraphale's touch has said: _You matter._ From the beginning, even when it hurt -- perhaps especially when it hurt -- Crowley has leaned into that touch for the promises Aziraphale made. To him. To _Crowley_. Promises Aziraphale made without seeming to understand how wasted, how foolish, how potentially disastrous his promises to a demon might have been.

_You're alright. I'm right here._

Aziraphale moves slowly and steadily, working oil into the mostly-human musculature of Crowley's chest, thumbing his nipples, teasingly, but not pausing. Human senses would have missed the thickening taste of ice wine in the air between them that tells Crowley his angel is beginning to develop an iridescent sheen in the firelight. That his human parts are growing heavy with desire in the same way Crowley's languid body feels softened, open, yearning. He stretches, pushing up into Aziraphale's hands, wanting _more_ , and feels the muscles in his abdomen that are more snake than human give a powerful ripple beneath Aziraphale's hands.

<<Good,>> he says again. Because it's okay if these are his only words.

"Yes. _Very_ good," Aziraphale agrees with the sound of a smile in his voice. "Shall I continue?"

<<Yessss.>>

Aziraphale lifts Crowley's hips to adjust his position on the rugs and moves to kneel between his knees. Crowley drops his arm away from his face so he can look, and know with vision, too, that this is real. Aziraphale is flushed in the flickering firelight, the colors of arousal on his skin shimmering as he moves. He's dropped his robe since Crowley shut his eyes, and the only thing left covering him is his favorite pair of worn flannel pyjama bottoms. His hands are glistening with oil as he smooths them down Crowley's thighs, hip to raised knee, then back again, eyes resting on Crowley's face as Crowley tries to remind his frantic heart that Aziraphale loves what he sees, including the way Crowley looks back at him.

Aziraphale pushes his hands up the inside of Crowley's thighs and Crowley allows his thighs to fall open wider. _Please_. Aziraphale's gaze flickers downward, to the place where Crowley knows he's glistening with desire, heavy and waiting for Aziraphale's touch. But Aziraphale doesn't move to caress him there just yet. Instead, he dips his hands into the bowl again and begins to work fresh oil into the scales that fan out along Crowley's belly and the grooves where hips meet thighs.

<<Aziraphale,>> he whines -- greedy, demanding -- pushing up again into Aziraphale's hands, as Aziraphale continues to work the oil into his skin everywhere but the place where Crowley aches for him to touch.

"Patience," Aziraphale says, though he's breathless with it, too, and when he licks his lips, Crowley can see the shimmer of want smeared across his mouth. "Patience, Crowley," he says, but fond, and even as he's saying it his hands are sliding underneath Crowley's thighs to steady Crowley's hips and he's lowering himself to his belly between Crowley’s knees.

" _Aziraphale_ …” Crowley whispers out on the softest exhale, but Aziraphale hears him, because Aziraphale is always listening.

"My dearest," Aziraphale's mouth is full of love. He presses it slick against the scales of Crowley's inner thigh, drags his lips higher in a question that Crowley answers with a lift of his hips and the fall of his knees open wider, wider at the press of Aziraphale's shoulders and the caress of not-quite-wings.

Crowley's eyes flutter closed again and everything is once again touch and taste and sound: heat from the fire, the settling of the coals, the authoritative grip Aziraphale has on his hips as Crowley strains to move and not-move, wanting and not-wanting more and too much everything simultaneously. He arches his back to press everything _down_ toward _more_ and feels his muscles give a ripple as his hold on human anatomy slips another few atoms to the left.

There's a soft _huff_ of breath against his exposed and sensitive parts as Aziraphale ghosts a happy laugh at Crowley's writhing. "You are so ready for me, my dear," he murmurs, pleased, proud, as if Crowley like this is all he has ever wanted.

"Such beautiful colors," Aziraphale continues, as Crowley strains again just to feel Aziraphale hold him still, hold him back, _make_ him listen to everything Aziraphale wants to say. "Every time I look at you here, another shade" -- Aziraphale's lips are ghosting up one side of Crowley's cleft -- "another hue," -- and down the other. Crowley opens for him, cloacal muscles relaxing, lubrication -- the oil, his own slick, Aziraphale's -- _everywhere_ , the aching need for Aziraphale closer, nearer, deeper, that he's carried restlessly, endlessly only bearable now for the knowledge that Aziraphale will give him all of that and keep on giving until all Crowley has room to know is _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_.

When Aziraphale finally pushes forward, deeper, tonguing Crowley open, finding the long, strong, swollen lines of his clitori, Crowley hears himself make a noise that's somewhere between a keening cry of _how is it you feel so fucking good_ and an impatient growl of _took you long enough_. He scrabbles for purchase with his hands until Aziraphale catches him, palms to wrists, and they cling to one another as Aziraphale mouths closer and seals his lips more firmly to tender flesh.

Long ago, in Tabriz, Crowley had listened to a group of women giggling about the things they did with one another in the privacy of night. Fingers, lips, tongues, and teeth, all had sounded a bit dangerous to have so close to his sofest, most protected parts. And yet as he had listened -- sitting on a wall above the courtyard where they passed bowls of dates and olives between them, sipped steaming cups of sweet-spiced tea, and spoke of intimate things -- he had felt his body give way beneath the words and the curling sensations they conjured. _And then I spread her open with my tongue ..._ a flicker of his own against his lips ... _I like it very much when she tugs upon my hair_... something twists deep inside, like a tiny snake roiling out from under an upturned rock. _When she takes me in her mouth, then, oh, then ..._

Each time Aziraphale brings his lips to Crowley, just there, Crowley thinks of how the women of Tabriz prepared the way for him, for this. Not that he could ever have been fully prepared. He'd wondered, of course. He hadn't failed to imagine, to fantasize, in the many years since he'd finally managed to connect the knowing laughter of women in secluded courtyards with the ways Aziraphale might (someday) (desire to) touch him. Countless times he had looked up from a glass of wine at dinner to see Aziraphale put a date, or an olive, or a ripe cherry tomato between his lips and thought: _yes_. Countless times he had lain in bed and slipped his fingers to the ache between his legs, thought of Aziraphale's mouth, and wondered what his soft lips and clever tongue might do. _Yes_.

But his imagination had -- for _centuries_ \-- failed him. Quite simply and spectacularly. Because nothing had prepared him for the overwhelming reality of Aziraphale _right there_ at his core. The heat of his breath and flushed skin, the messy fluids, the anchoring grip of his hands in Crowley's own, the suction and pressure and the building, cresting emptiness and ache.

<<Empty. Empty. Empty.>> Crowley realizes he's been chanting, half an order, and Aziraphale disentangles one hand to bring it back between Crowley's thighs and -- without lifting his head from sucking Crowley off -- presses three fingers full inside. It's good, _so_ good, Aziraphale inside him: both demanding and protected. Crowley grips Aziraphale's remaining hand so tight he's sure to bruise and digs his now-empty fist into the carpet. Aziraphale _hmmms,_ with pleased vibrations that travel along every nerve, and crooks his fingers in search of the spot along the inner wall that makes Crowley's toes curl.

When Crowley comes, it's sudden, a heaving undulation that takes him by surprise and seizes every muscle radiating outward from the press and drag of Aziraphale's fingers in a great shiver of pleasure. Aziraphale anchors him through it with a strong grip in Crowley's white-knuckled fist, the insistent push of his fingers _deeper_ and _wider_ , and the pull of his lips sealed around, tongue pressed stiff against, the pounding pulsepoints of Crowley's clits.

The world tastes of them, together, Crowley thinks, when he can string thoughts containing words together again into something approaching coherent observations. The rich sweetness of Aziraphale's pleasure mingled with the peat moss notes of his own. His tongue is coated with it, his mouth feels full with it, even though he hasn't yet been anywhere near Aziraphale's parts. He frowns ... or at least makes an earnest effort toward frowning. His form is still reluctant to do anything more than exist in exactly the state Aziraphale has left it. Or, rather, in the state Aziraphale still very much has hold of it. He seems, currently, to be using Crowley's midsection as a pillow.

Crowley manages limbs just long enough to get his free hand up to Aziraphale's hair, meaning to brush the white-gold curls from where they've fallen into Aziraphale's face, but doesn't get any further than a gentle laying on of hands. Aziraphale releases a happy sigh and the lights of the aurora borealis sweep the edge of Crowley's vision, like a bird ruffling its feathers before settling back on its perch. Aziraphale at rest.

"Don't think you'll get away with spoiling me as easy as that," Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale props himself back up on his elbows and rubs his cheek against Crowley's thigh like a cat scent-marking his human before he replies: "You _will_ let me get away with spoiling you." Crowley's skin prickles with the reminder that Aziraphale is a Principality who defied Hell and Heaven, and risked defying even God to love him.

Crowley is used to that sort of reckless behavior, of course. It's the sort of thing _he's_ been doing despite every resolution to the contrary since his heart had gone off the rails and started to care too much about all the things both sides said he shouldn't. He's had several millennia at least to get used to the hopelessness of his own case. He has no sodding clue what to do with the fact that Aziraphale thinks Crowley's worth that risk as well.

He reaches out with slightly more coordinated fingers to tuck a fly-away curl back behind Aziraphale's ear. "Sweetheart," he says, tasting the truth of the word on his tongue. "Sweetheart, up here so I can kiss you."

Crowley still feels disinclined to move, but Aziraphale follows the soft directives of Crowley's hands pulling him up over Crowley's sprawled form until he's kneeling over Crowley close enough for kisses. Aziraphale folds in close, cock a heavy, damp heat against the oil-soft scales of Crowley's belly, and rocks his hips, unhurried but with purpose, as they kiss in the near-darkness of the dying fire in the grate. Crowley smooths his hands down Aziraphale's sides, massaging what he can reach of the brilliant splashes of color that mark where Aziraphale's wings emerge. All is slow and warm and tastes of the two of them blended together skin to skin and tongue to tongue.

"They would have punished us for this, in Heaven," Aziraphale eventually says, softly, sadly, pulling away from Crowley's mouth to press his face to Crowley's neck. Crowley can taste the salt of Aziraphale's tears on the back of his tongue. Some days, Aziraphale's raw disappointment puts new cracks in Crowley's long-disillusioned heart. " _This_ , Crowley." Crowley can't deny it, because what Aziraphale says is true. They would have found a way to poison such Earthly love in Hell as well.

"We didn't let them," Crowley says, reassuring himself as much as Aziraphale, as he splays his hands wide at the small of Aziraphale's back and gathers him even closer. All those years of silence, of half acknowledged longings and unelaborated touches, keeping them alive and whole for _this_.

"This," Crowley whispers, skimming his palms over the warm, shimmering curves of Aziraphale's hips, then urging him to tuck in closer over Crowley's body with his hands to the back of Aziraphale's thighs, his bent knees. "This is _only_ for us."

"Mmm," Aziraphale agrees, without words, nuzzling in one more against Crowley's body, every touch skin against skin as they slip-slide together. Aziraphale is so _warm_ ; even as the glow of the once-blazing fire wanes, and the burst of heat from Crowley's orgasm dissipates, Aziraphale's body heat keeps them both comfortable. Crowley draws up his knees to support Aziraphale's arse and Aziraphale gives him another pleased sound, pressing back against Crowley's thighs. Crowley can feel Aziraphale's curls tickling at the still-sensitive flesh of his cloacal cavity, the base of Aziraphale's cock thick with desire, his balls gently shifting as he moves, seeking contact and friction. Crowley digs his heels into the carpets, bracing so that Aziraphale has a part of him to rock back against. Aziraphale makes more happy, wordless sounds and Crowley smiles, unseen, into Aziraphale's hair.

"You feel so good against me, sweetheart," Crowley says, kissing his way down the side of Aziraphale's arousal-slick neck in search of the best place to suck a bruise where only he and Aziraphale will ever see: _only_ for them. Aziraphale groans as Crowley latches on, tipping his chin to give Crowley access. "Please," he says. "Please."

Crowley still doesn't understand why he gets to have this: Aziraphale, naked in his arms and without shame, every desire painted across his skin, giving Crowley every pleasure he has ever felt, trusting a demon to keep them safe. To cherish every one. _Please_.

Crowley finds the meat of Aziraphale's shoulder and bites down, sucking a bruise with intent, as Aziraphale has asked him to, while Aziraphale grunts in pained appreciation. His thrusts against Crowley's opening take on an increasingly urgent stutter. Everything is slick between them and Aziraphale is looking for a rhythm that will bring him to orgasm. Crowley, still sensitive from his own release, rolls them both to one side so he has Aziraphale cradled in against his chest with one arm and can get his other hand between them to provide the needed friction and pressure.

"There, sweetheart," he murmurs, thinking how many times such endearments had all but tumbled out of his mouth for the world to hear. These days, he sometimes says them on the streets of London just to remind himself he can: _this way, sweetheart_. At a restaurant table: _did you want dessert, darling?_ On the Tube: _this is our stop, love_. Every time he does it Aziraphale looks at him with a look that says, _I know._ And somehow Crowley survives that, too.

"There, sweetheart," he murmurs once again, and Aziraphale is coming for him, with a groan and a curve of his spine and yet more fluid spilling between them, as Crowley kisses his sounds from his mouth thinking of all of the orgasms they have yet to make up for.

They drift, Crowley thinks, after that. He has a dream about feeding Aziraphale olives in a courtyard. They’re both women, among women, and none of them are wearing any clothes, and she straddles Aziraphale’s lap to feed her dates with sticky honey-coated fingers, and lets Aziraphale suck honey from her nipples as the other women laugh with approval, because all of them know just how good it feels. _When she takes me in her mouth, then, oh, then ..._

At a time indeterminately later, Crowley, or perhaps Aziraphale, pulls a blanket from the couch to cover them both, inadequately.

“We do have a bed,” Crowley murmurs, because like everything else about this it’s still surprisingly true: _they have a bed_. “I suppose we should use it.” And unlike humans, they wouldn’t even need to make an effort beyond a quick curse or a miracle to relocate there.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agrees, without moving.

“Persuasive,” Crowley admits, closing his eyes and allowing himself to drift back off to sleep.


End file.
